


Fuck No

by wehangout



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: An attempt at explaining Ian's reaction to Lip's question, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Smut, Mostly just good stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21777847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: “You gonna marry Mickey?”“Fuck no.”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 23
Kudos: 286





	Fuck No

**Author's Note:**

> While writing this I kept thinking about a conversation I once had with a friend about writers who treat their readers like idiots. So I tried to be subtle and it's gone one of three ways.
> 
> 1\. I've been too subtle and no one gets it.  
> 2\. I've done a perfect job and you all totally get it without it being shoved down your throats, or  
> 3\. I've shoved it down your throats.
> 
> Whatever it turns out to be, I hope you enjoy it.

Things get weird the night before the night before. You joke and shove each other on the way to dinner, just like every other night, but then, while you’re eating your beef stroganoff and half a cup of veggies, things get … quiet.

And you’re in jail, for fucks sake. Even in the middle of the night there’s nothing quiet about jail because if there’s not someone jacking off two cells down, or talking to himself in the cell across, then the plumbing is whirring and creaking, pipes groaning under the pressure of flushing hundreds of dudes’ shit away every goddamn day.

But that’s how it gets at dinner. Quiet. Two guys at the other end of the table are going through the alphabet naming movies from the nineties; a couple of guards two tables over are trying to convince Jimmy to stop making idle threats and eat his fucking dinner; and there’s even shitty music playing over the shitty PA system.

That small circle around you and Ian, that bubble that seems to exist day and night, is silent.

It stays silent all the way back to your cell. It stays silent when he grabs a book and climbs onto his bed. It stays silent as you doodle half-heartedly on a piece of paper. He doesn’t come to you that night, and you don’t go to him, but when the lights go out, you can tell by his breathing alone that he’s not asleep.

\---

He’s on you the next morning, hand in your boxers, wrapped expertly around your hard dick. He ruts against your ass, panting into your neck and letting out tiny sounds on every third or fourth thrust, and it’s those that get you. Ian Gallagher likes to _hear you_ when he fucks you, but he’s not stupid enough to get carried away now. Not here.

But he can’t seem to help himself and that sends you over the edge, coming in his hand and on your own belly after nothing more than a quick handie. Ian follows, and you can feel his wetness seep through his own boxers onto your ass. It’s enough to make you want to go again, until –

“I’m staying.”

He whispers it against your shoulder, so quiet that you barely hear him.

“You what?”

“You heard me,” he says, and moves back a little when you struggle out of his grip, turn to face him. “I’m staying.”

“The fuck you are.”

His hand, still sticky with your come, lifts and grasps at your tank, right over your heart. “I want to stay with you.”

And you’re sure as hell he feels the thud-thud-thudding of your heart, the way it goes from a post-orgasm, slowing _thump … thump … thump_ to beating so hard it physically hurts. He says nothing else, though; just grips tighter and kisses you.

His breath is terrible and yours is likely worse, but you kiss him back, thread your fingers into his hair, commit every crevice of his mouth to memory. And when you pull back, he grins like a dope and you smile back.

“You’re leaving,” you say. “Tomorrow morning. And if you fight me on this again, I swear that will be the last time I kiss you while you’re still here.”

His jaw drops, but you ignore it to climb over him and take a leak.

\---

Breakfast is silent. Not quite as painfully so as dinner, but still silent. You watch Ian and you know he watches you when you’re not watching him. Sometimes your gaze will meet, and he will glare, or you’ll smirk, or mutual soft – _sad_ , they’re fucking sad, okay? – smiles will fill your bubble and you can forget, just for a second, that he’s leaving you.

Again.

Fuck.

He stops you before the turn off to the laundry and there’s this stupid feeling in your chest. He’s leaving. He’s leaving tomorrow and you don’t even get to spend your last day together because you’re in fucking prison and it’s utter bullshit.

“Hey,” he says, and gestures away from the crowd.

“We ain’t talking about this shit again, Ian.”

“No, I … I’m not gonna say that again, all right? It’s something else.”

You look up that tiny bit to meet his gaze and ignore everyone else around you. “What then?”

“I’ll wait.”

His words make you want to vomit so you swallow hard and nod. “Sure. Okay.”

“I mean it, Mick.” His hand brushes your arm in a barely-there touch, the only kind of touch either of you allow outside of the cell. “I mean it.”

“Look, man, let’s not make promises we can’t keep, okay?” You take a step back and avoid his gaze. “I’ll see ya at lunch.”

“Wait!” He reaches for you but doesn’t touch. “You didn’t answer me the other day.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” you ask, glancing at the guards.

“What are we gonna do when I get out? Long distance? Break up? Marriage –“

“Fuck no.”

He pulls back, eyebrows high on his forehead. “Excuse me?”

“I already had one shitshow of a marriage, Gallagher. I ain’t doing that again.”

“But it wouldn’t be a shitshow –“

“I said fuck no, asswipe. End of discussion.”

\---

He brings it up again at lunch.

“They can set that kind of shit up here, you know? People get married in prison all the time.”

You stare at him and answer through a mouthful of bread. “Seriously?”

“Yeah! They bring in a – a fucking officiant and legal papers and everything.”

“No, I mean _seriously_? You’re still going on about this shit?”

He shrugs, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “Whaddya say?”

“I say fuck no.”

\---

And it’s not that you don’t want to marry Ian, it’s just …

_You gonna marry me? We gonna go down to the courthouse in some tuxes like a couple of old queens?_

So, you have trouble forgetting shit, who fucking doesn’t?

Ian had been sick when he said those words, but it didn’t make your initial statement any less true. And he responded by shitting all over it.

\---

“You know what I’ve always loved?” he asks around a mouthful of orange jello. “Wedding cake.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Did you have any of the cake at your wedding?” he asks. “I was too fucking shit-faced to do much more than continue o drink, but Mandy said it was good.”

You put down your fork, still piled high with flavourless mashed potatoes. “No, Ian, I didn’t have any fucking cake at my wedding. I was too busy trying to get it up and fuck my wife, so my old man didn’t kill me the following morning.”

A flicker of something painful flashes over his face, but then he grins. “At least we know that won’t be a problem at our wedding, huh?”

“You’re a fucking tool.”

“I’m a sucker for a good chocolate cake,” he continues. “How about you? Fruit?”

“Fuck no.”

“So carrot, then?”

“Shut the fuck up, Gallagher.”

He’s silent while he finishes his jello, but you can’t eat anymore mashed potatoes. You’ve lost your appetite and the texture of that shit doesn’t help. You peel open your own jello and pick up your spoon but make no more to eat any.

You want this with Ian – the teasing and joking – but you want it on the outside, you want it once you’re both out of this shithole. You want every night together – preferably in a bed big enough to share – and you want breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. You want your fucking bubble with him, and you want everything he’ll give you.

You’re just not sure how much that is.

\---

You’re the last two to leave the shower block. Not because you stuck around to bang, but because you managed to get some purple dye all over you in the laundry and it took for-fucking-ever to wash off.

“Purple looks good on you,” Ian says, dumb smirk on his pretty mouth.

You flip him off and say nothing as you pass the guard, but as soon as you’re around the corner Ian tugs at your hand and pulls you into a linen closet.

“The fuck, man? There’s, like, zero space in here.”

His lips are against your ear. “Don’t need much space for sucking cock, Mick.”

Said cock goes instantly hard, and you watch in the dim light as Ian sinks to his knees and opens the buttons of your jumpsuit. You can barely see him, but his pink lips stand out and you fight a groan when he wickedly smiles at the sight of you.

He noses at your cock and stares up at you. “Marry me?”

“Fuck no.”

He licks a long stripe up the underside and pouts. “You don’t want this forever?”

“Fuck you.”

He swirls his tongue around your head and lowers his voice even more. “Fuck my face, Mick.”

Your knees shake, but you do as he says, and you fuck his face. And after, after you finish and he stands up to kiss you with come-slicked lips, when the bubble surrounds you and squeezes you and everything is _Ian_ , he whispers those two words again.

“I’ll wait.”

\---

“Corvette?”

“Eh.”

“Mustang?”

“Better.”

“Rolls Royce?”

“You turn fucking North side when I wasn’t lookin’?”

He grins, picks up your discarded 3 of hearts, and throws down a four of clubs. Then he wags his eyebrows. “Limo?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“We could just take the El,” he says. “Catch a ride down to the courthouse –“

“Fuck no.”

“Oh? Too good for the El on your wedding day, huh?”

He’s teasing, but you feel like maybe he’s getting serious, too, and you can’t fucking help yourself.

“Look, it’s a 1967 Black Impala or nothing at all, got it?”

Ian’s silent for a long minute. You take that time to ignore the beating in your chest and pretend like you don’t give a shit. You pick up a new card and throw out your nine of spades.

“You won’t compromise and go with the ’67 Camaro?” he finally asks, and his eyes are nothing but sincere when you look into them.

“Fuck no.”

“Okay. 1967 Black Impala it is then.”

And if your voice shakes when you reply, it’s not your fucking fault. “Okay.”

\---

“You gonna marry Mickey?” Lip asks the next night.

“Fuck no.”

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr


End file.
